With A Little Help From My Friends
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Set in the summer after PoA. The Dursleys finally give Harry a beating. Ron and Hermione are there for him.Guest starring Molly Weasley and Poppy Pomfrey. Hurt comfort wallow: be forewarned. May be considered fluffy by some.
1. Chapter 1

As Uncle Vernon's belt buckle bit into the flesh of his back, bruising the very bone, Harry writhed on the living-room floor, choking with the effort not to cry out. I've taken the Cruciatus Curse.. this should be easy.. he tried to think, but it was getting more and more difficult. How did I get into this mess? he wondered. While Uncle Vernon had often expressed the desire to use his belt on the 'ill-mannered' Harry as a correctional device, something had always intervened to protect him – first the Dursleys' fear of his magical powers, then, when they had discovered that he could be expelled from his beloved Hogwarts for using magic during the holidays, the threat of retribution from his loving godfather, wanted throughout the country for murder by Muggles and wizards alike. But all that had changed this afternoon when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had gone down the pub.

"Harry! You, boy! Get down here!" Uncle Vernon bellowed as they came in, at around ten o'clock. Harry put down his quill in the middle of the letter he was writing to Ron.

/Hang on a sec, Uncle Vernon's shouting about something or other again./ he wrote. /I'll see what they want this time and be right back./

He walked down the stairs with what he thought was a good mixture of respect and subtle insubordination in his expression. He had had all summer to practice this expression, and was getting rather good at it. His wand hung loosely in his hand, as an unspoken threat. "You bellowed, Uncle?"

_Slap._

He had no time to ride the blow, not having expected it in the least, and was knocked headlong down the remaining two steps to the floor. Head spinning, he looked up into Uncle Vernon's face, plastered with a self-satisfied sneer. Through his confused senses, he registered two things. One, that his uncle was definitely the worse for liquor, in a way he had never seen before; and two, that the sneer on his face reminded him of nothing so much as Draco Malfoy.

"That's right, and well may you look surprised, boy! I'm not taking any of your lip any more." Vernon looked down at him with a distinctly gloating expression.

Feeling that he had better regain control of the situation before it got out of hand, Harry found his voice as he got up, swaying a little. "You don't dare," he said. "My godfather-"

And that was when Uncle Vernon laughed, a laugh that sent a chill through Harry's body. "It's over." He said it as if it were some sort of hilarious joke.

The room seemed to be drained of colour. Harry had to swallow before he could speak. "What do you mean?"

His uncle turned his back on him and walked complacently into the living-room, followed closely by Aunt Petunia. Normally this room was off-limits to Harry, but he followed them doggedly, fear in his heart, and stood trembling inside the doorway. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

"I mean," Uncle Vernon said, smirking as if he was disclosing a particularly delightful secret, "that tonight when we were down at the pub, who had the ruddy cheek to walk in there but your precious Mr. Sirius Black. Nobody recognized him at first – he was in disguise – but your Aunt Petunia saw him and screamed, and I stood up and said, "It's Sirius Black!" just like that. That's right, I was the one to catch that murderer you're so fond of. They rushed him and took him down the police station while they contacted the proper authorities-"

Harry's wand slipped from his nerveless hand as he felt the room spinning. His head was a jumble of agonized thoughts. The proper authorities. Azkaban. The dementors. Sirius. His Sirius, the only adult, other than Dumbledore, he could say he loved – _He must have come here to see me. That would be the only thing that could bring him _–

He looked up into Uncle Vernon's grinning, gloating face. A rush of furious grief and despair tore at him. He threw himself at his uncle, wrapped his hands around the great tree-trunk throat. He felt himself going over the edge, but he didn't care – he could face Voldemort on the battlefield, but he couldn't deal with the news of Sirius' death in this cold place he called home. He felt lost. Voldemort was back and without Sirius he had nothing – nothing –

His mind had barely registered going to Dumbledore as a possibility when he felt himself being picked up and thrown to the floor. His head bounced hard off the floorboards, his wand flew out of his hand, landing close by. Through his dizziness and the haze of his own anguish he heard something about the Smeltings Stick being just the thing to take him down a peg, and felt a dull thud on his back. He hardly registered it, and turned his face to the carpet, numb with grief. More thuds, more crying. Sirius' face swam before his eyes and he reached out desperately to touch him, to hold him, to protect him. A drum beat, louder and more insistently… it seemed to block out Sirius' face… it… it pounded… it…

It seemed to be coming from inside him. Finally the fog that seemed to be clouding Harry's senses lightened, ever so slightly, enough for him to register that the drum was the pounding of the blood in his own throbbing back, shoulders, buttocks and legs. His body seemed to be twitching and jerking quite a bit, but he was only half-aware of it. Vaguely he became aware that he was being beaten. The throbbing was beginning to turn into real pain. Uncle Vernon was laughing, and this scared him.

_I'd better do something_, Harry thought, and reached for his wand, lying just out of reach on the floor. But he never reached it. He cried out as a heavy boot crushed his wand-hand beneath it. He felt a bone snap, and tasted bile in his throat. "Told you those football boots would be good for something, Dad!" Dudley was saying cheerfully as he ground Harry's hand beneath his massive foot. "Can I have a go?"

"No, you may not," Vernon said as he whacked the stick down on Harry's back so hard that he thought his spine might break. "I'm teaching this boy a lesson in manners he'll never forget. Now just stand over there and watch quietly with your mother."

But Dudley seemed to have been a source of inspiration to Vernon. Harry saw the stick clatter to the ground within his limited field of vision. Daring to hope that it was over, he rolled over, ignoring the throbbing agony in his back. His vision was blurry and he shook his head to clear it. He slid his elbows under him… slowly now… first an owl to Dumbledore telling him to rescue Sirius before he got sent to Azkaban, then…

His head snapped around with a sharp pain in his cheek. Before he could fully register it, Vernon's belt buckle whistled through the air and impacted his neck. Reflex kicked in as Harry's arms flew up to protect his head and face, not a moment too soon as the blows began to rain down. He curled up onto the floor as he felt the metal piece puncture the flesh of his arms and shoulders. He tried to move or do something, but the belt buckle's impact was excruciating, as his body was by now a solid mass of bruises. He could feel many of them bleeding. His skinny frame offered no protection for his ribs, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out. Famous Harry Potter, yeah right, he thought as he struggled to remain conscious. Blood choked him from where the buckle had struck his cheek. He could tell he was badly hurt, and he regretted underestimating his Muggle relatives. His body was now completely out of his control as it twitched and jerked uncontrollably under the powerful blows. _Funny I'm so careful about Voldemort and I finally get killed by the crowd at Privet Drive, he thought._ Then the belt landed on his temple again and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Ron Weasley lay on his bed, a broad smile on his face. Staring unseeingly at the ceiling, he was indulging in a daydream.

"And Weasley has the ball… He flies through the defensive line… And he scores!"

He shook his head. Something about this fantasy just didn't seem right. The fact was that he couldn't get that Muggle game that Hermione had told him about, football, out of his mind. It just didn't seem right to him. How could you use your feet to kick a ball when you needed them for running at the same time? It was biologically impossible. If it was a magical ball like the Quaffles or the Snitch, moving on its own power, that he could understand, but a _Muggle_ ball? There had to be some mistake, he decided.

He got up and looked around the room for a ball. Maybe if he could just try it… once or twice.. to test the theory…

A clattering at the window put all thoughts of football out of his mind. He grinned at the sight of Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl, fluttering there, clutching a paper in her beak –

That was odd. Why hadn't Harry tied it round her leg as he always did?

Feeling slightly uneasy, he went to the window and let Hedwig in. She sailed in, then jumped up and down on the bed; she flew back and forth between him and the window; then she dropped the paper at his feet.

Ron picked it up and scanned it apprehensively. It seemed harmless enough. It was a letter from Harry, starting with news and gossip, and ending abruptly with the words –

/Hang on a sec, Uncle Vernon's shouting about something or other again. I'll see what they want this time and be right back./

Ron looked up at Hedwig, alarmed. "He never finished this," he said. Hedwig nodded. "He's in trouble," he went on, and it was not a question. "How bad is it, Hedwig?" The owl fluttered her wings.

Ron took a deep breath and reached for his wand. "Is it – " he swallowed nervously, knowing he would have to go to Harry even if it was – "You-Know-Who?"

Hedwig shook her head vigorously and flapped her wings as if to say, _Hurry_.

In an instant, Ron decided what to do. "Mum!" he yelled as he bounded down the stairs three at a time.

Molly Weasley inhaled the aroma of her steaming mug of hot chocolate, delicately flavoured with butterfly-wing. It was her own recipe: just the thing to calm your nerves. She wished that Harry's godfather, that impulsive young man, had accepted her offer of some, her gaze flickering to the fire where he had been minutes ago. He'd been so worried about his godson, so insistent that they keep checking on him. With thoughts of Sirius came thoughts of Harry, the orphan boy whom she regarded – no matter what, she thought defiantly – as her newest adopted son. Boy-Who-Lived, Saviour – what nonsense, she thought sympathetically. He was a remarkable young man to be sure, but these titles were far too heavy a burden to place on a lonely little boy. Unwillingly, the corners of her mouth quirked upward at what the object of her reflections would say if he heard himself being called a "little boy". Well, he was, and she didn't care who teased her about saying it, or about being overprotective. She was quite happy the way she was, thank you very much.

Another sip of chocolate, a glance at the pink light of the setting sun filtered through the trees, dappling the kitchen table in shifting patterns. The situation was dire outside; You-Know-Who was back and they were all in mortal peril; yet Molly would not have exchanged her life for anyone else's. She'd always been teased about her "maternal instinct"; it had started in primary school where she'd opened a doll hospital, to Hogwarts where she'd been famous for 'adopting' first years, orphans and students with problems and taking them under her wing. Now she was still teased, but by her own children, no less. A wry grin accompanied the next sip of chocolate. Let them tease. She loved the Burrow with a passion, she loved her Arthur with all her heart, and her children were a never-ceasing source of – _riches_, was the best way to describe it. Molly had never cared about money that much. Riches for her were hearing about Bill's dragons and Charlie's escapades; watching over the twins and feeling the sunshine, the gift of laughter, they brought into the room; seeing Ron, so serious and sensitive, coping with school and carving a niche for himself; watching Ginny grow into her alarmingly powerful magical gift, courtesy of being the seventh child. And Harry, she thought, trying to protect him and give him the love that he seemed to have been denied, though she wasn't sure why, since he did have living relatives. Each of these her children brought something into her life; it was like living in a cosy room and having a kaleidoscope of windows on the world to look out of…

"Mum!"

Her youngest son skidded into the kitchen, breathless, wand in hand. He was white as a sheet.

Molly's heart dropped. "What's the matt—"

"Mum," he panted, words tumbling out in a rush, "it's Harry – he's in trouble – Hedwig, Hedwig came, and she says it's not You-Know-Who, but it's bad – Mum, I've got to go – you can't stop me – "

Calmly, checking her apron pocket for her own wand, Mrs. Weasley stood. "Whoever said anything about stopping you?" she said, though her face was a little pale. "Who's going to look after you if I don't come along?"

Expecting protest, she was amazed when her son shot to her side, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. "Oh Mum – " he said in a choked voice. "I know I'm not supposed to Apparate – underage, I know – but Mum, it's _Harry_-"

Wasting no further time, Molly closed her eyes and Apparated herself and her son outside the wards around Number Four, Privet Drive.


	3. Chapter 3

Unlocking the front door with a whispered spell, the pair found themselves in a dark hallway. There was no sound anywhere in the house except from the living room, where there was a loud, rhythmic thumping. Molly tried to think of the different things that could be causing it. Haunting, most likely. She was a bit surprised that Harry Potter would feel the need to call for help because of a ghost. Still...

"Stay back," she told Ron, advancing towards the door.

"Wands out, Mum," he whispered, and she took her son's advice without thinking that he was not supposed to be using magic at all. Silently, mother and son opened the door and entered. Then they stood, dumbstruck. Ron let out a strangled cry.

Ron recognized Harry's relations from the railway station. The big, stupid Muggles were tormenting Harry to the point of death. His friend's slight figure was writhing on the floor like a butterfly on a pin, his hand crushed beneath one of the Muggles' huge feet. He was unconscious, his small frame bruised and broken – there did not seem to be an unhurt spot on his body. His face was bloody and swollen. And though he was practically beaten to a pulp, the other big fat Muggle was whipping him mercilessly with the buckle end of a long leather belt. With each lash, the unconscious figure jerked and twitched.

Before Mrs. Weasley could collect herself, Ron had sprinted out from behind her and obeyed his first instinct, to shield Harry with his body from further beating. Dropping to his knees beside his friend, he deliberately put himself between the belt and the prone figure, crying out as he caught the impact of a blow on his right cheek. But now his mother had raised her wand.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

The belt flew out of Uncle Vernon's hand and he stared amazed at this invasion, sobered in an instant. He had barely had time to register it before his son was turned into a mouse and scuttled off under the sofa. He blanched as Mrs. Weasley advanced on him.

"M…dear madam, I assure you," he stammered, "I was merely disciplining the boy, he.. he was hysterical as you see, and I wished to calm him down-"

"_Silencio!"_

Unable suddenly to speak, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stared horror-struck at this avenging angel in a floury apron. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were terrible to behold. As Aunt Petunia turned to escape, she spoke again.

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

Now unable to move, the two figures stared in terror as the woman came closer to them. When she spoke, her quiet, level tone spoke of a terrible, implacable hatred that was far worse than any anger could be.

"The only reason I'm not doing anything to you," she said, still in that same quiet tone, "is that what you deserve to have done to you no decent wizard would sully his hands by doing." She paced around the two human statues as she spoke. "You're so stupid, you'll deserve your fate when it comes – and it will, make no mistake. If you had any inkling – but how could you? – of what will happen to you, of what will happen to all of us, if this boy dies – of what may still happen while he lives, despite all our best efforts…" She trailed off shakily. "We are trying to fight to protect you and your ilk from the greatest danger that ever faced us all, and this is what you…" In disgust, she waved her wand, and two cockroaches cowered before her. _"Temporario Effectus!"_ she said to the room in general, waving her wand in a circle to include the mouse as well. "Come on, Ron, let's get him home. Can he stand?"

"No, Mum, but I can carry him."

He was glad to find that his voice was strong, unaffected by the tears that flowed steadily and silently down his cheeks, without self-consciousness or shame. Ron Weasley had not moved from his position beside Harry since he first rushed to his side. He had thought of waking him, then decided it was kinder not to. Seeing Harry beaten by his own relations had shaken him to the core; he wanted badly to help, but was too afraid of causing further pain. Finally, he found a way of picking him up so that Harry's chest was pressed close to his own, the jet-black head lying against his shoulder, Ron's cradling arms barely touching the bruised and bleeding flesh of his friend's back.

"We need to go outside the wards for the Apparition to work, Ron," he dimly heard his mother's voice say. Shifting his small friend's body as he rose, he felt a pang at how light and frail Harry was, how easy it was to carry him. As Harry's head slipped into place against his shoulder, the black hair brushing Ron's cheek, a wave of protectiveness ripped through Ron. It made him feel somehow older, a more competent wizard. He felt he could have faced You-Know-Who in that moment if he had wanted to hurt Harry.

He almost felt too old for embarrassment. When his mother put her arms round both of them for the Side-Along Apparition, he leaned into her embrace like a little child. Not that that stopped Molly Weasley's rant for an instant.

"I'll have a thing or two to say to Albus Dumbledore, I shall! 'He'll be safer there.' Oh, will he! Just you wait, Headmaster!"


	4. Chapter 4

As the familiar walls of their home reappeared around them, Molly cursed Dumbledore, the Fates in general and, in particular, the stupid Muggles who had aged her youngest son before his time. The look on his face was one she had seen of young men in the wars, back in the first reign of You-Know-Who; all the pain of life and love, of empathy and compassion, stark on the too-young face. The fierce desire to protect the life of a friend, even with your own. Looking at the gash on her son's face, Mrs. Weasley was glad it had not come to that. But… A dark thought came to her, and she pushed it back as suddenly as it had come, knowing she could not afford to think about that now. "Get him upstairs, Ron," she said briskly, hiding her confusion. "Now."

"Mum, he needs a Healer…"

"I'm calling Poppy now. Try to make him comfortable. Go!"

"Harry?" Ron whispered as he carried him up the stairs. "Harry, you all right?" He knew how ridiculous the question sounded, but he didn't care. A rush of protectiveness overwhelmed him as he felt the warm weight of his tiny friend in his arms. He couldn't shake off the memory of how Harry had looked last term, always energetic, always so full of life. But now…A chill went through his arms at how limp the body he carried was. Harry looked like the picture of death. His face wore a deathly pallor, his jet-black hair hanging limply in great shining slabs off his head, matted with blood. _He's so thin…_ he thought._ Have they been starving him as well? _

Finally Ron arrived at the door to his room. Pushing it open with his shoulder, he set his teeth and, trying to be as gentle as possible, laid Harry down onto the bed. But as soon as his back touched the mattress, his body convulsed and arched, a tiny whimper escaping him. Ron jerked him back, feeling the spasm in his own body. "Oh Harry…" he found himself murmuring. "Sorry, Harry… sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.." Anger flared. "…if I could just get my hands on your filthy relations now…" Slowly, carefully, he eased Harry down onto his side, which as far as he could tell held no injuries. Gently he raised the dark head and slipped the softest pillow he had under the bruised cheek. His fingers brushed the awful gash on Harry's temple. _Pomfrey's taking her sweet time_, he thought angrily. He shuddered again at the thought of the sharp metal buckle he had seen striking his friend's thin face, completely oblivious to the fact that his own cheek was bleeding from a similar blow.

Harry's eyes fluttered open and Ron jerked back in sudden embarrassment. "Harry…"

But Harry was still out of it, his eyes struggling to focus. "Sirius…" he mumbled. "They've got…" He struggled to get up, but could do no more than twitch.

"Just take it easy, mate, all right?" Ron said, "All right?" No answer.

A bushy-haired, frantic figure burst through the door to his room.

"Ron! Is Harry all right? What's going on? Your Mum told me there was something wrong, something about Harry's relations, I got her to Floo me here, Madam Pomfrey's on the way, she said Muggle injuries aren't that hard to heal…What _happened_?"

Relief washed over Ron at the sight of her. If anyone could help, she could. As he turned from the bed to face her, Hermione glimpsed Harry's face for the first time. He was starting to look more like a war casualty every minute, as his face puffed up and his eyes began to swell shut. The gashes and dried blood didn't help. She promptly went white. "_Harry!_"

His drowning green eyes latched onto her instead of Ron. "Sirius… They've got him.. tell Dum…"

"What?" Hermione bolted from her frozen position by the door to drop to her knees beside Harry's bed. She exchanged a look with Ron, who relinquished his position to her and perched on the bed next to Harry's pillow, the fingers of one hand lightly touching the black hair. He shrugged and shook his head.

"What you on about, mate? Sirius is fine! Who's been telling you rubbish?"

"Not…rubb…th.. p.police…" Harry gritted his teeth in what looked like agony, "Muggle police. Uncle Vernon told them… he came to see me and they saw h…_ah_…" He gritted his teeth and his body shook in a convulsion.

"All right, mate, it's all right.." Ron gripped Harry's shoulders and supported him through the spasm until it passed. Hermione slipped a hand into Harry's and held it tightly.

"So you were with Sirius when they arrested him? Is that how you got hurt?" Hermione asked gently, trying to understand.

"No, Hermione, it's not like—" Ron began.

Harry turned frustrated eyes on her. It seemed to be hard for him to pull himself together. With desperate control, he rasped, "They… told the police. The Muggle police… arrested him tonight. Jus' b'fore I got here. Ah." He gritted his teeth, and this time his head arched back and he gasped with the pain.

Ron had opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut when he saw Harry convulse in pain. Slipping from his perch on the bed to kneel next to Hermione on the floor, he slid an arm underneath Harry's head, looping it round his shoulders, careful to avoid his back. Harry's head lolled in the curve between Ron's neck and shoulder, and for a moment he feared Harry was going to pass out again. "Where on earth is Pomfrey?" he grunted. His heart hurt. Hermione made a small sound as tears spilled down her cheeks.

"'M all right, H'mione…" Harry turned to Ron. "Ron, we've got to…"

Ron exploded. "He's all _right_, Harry!" He slipped out of the impromptu embrace to look Harry in the eye. At his friend's blank stare, he continued. "He _is_! I was just going to _tell_ you that! I don't know what those… _relations_ of yours have been telling you, but Mum was chatting with Sirius on the Floo not half an hour ago, just before… we came to your house. He was asking about you! If they told you anything else about him, it was a big fat lie!"

Any reply Harry might have made was cut off by the bustling entrance of Madam Pomfrey, closely followed by Molly Weasley. "Oh my goodness gracious me!" she exclaimed on seeing Harry's face. Setting her bag down, she turned to Harry, still propped up on his elbow. His eyes had not left Ron.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Ron could feel the depth, the urgency, in his gaze.

"Turn over, Harry, please," said Pomfrey, and turned him gently onto his stomach. She began to sweep her wand slowly over his blood-encrusted shirt. But Harry's pleading eyes never left his best friend's.

"Look, mate, I'll get him on the Floo for you if it makes you feel better," Ron volunteered. What had those Muggles been telling Harry? Wasn't it enough to beat him, did they have to break his heart, too?

"No!" Harry said quickly. Ron could see the belief slowly settling into him. "I don't want him to see me..." He trailed off in embarrassment… "like this," he finished lamely.

Hermione let out a strangled cry. Ron's head whipped round to face her, and followed her gaze. She was staring at Harry.

Ron gasped. He'd had been so wrapped up in his talk with Harry that he hadn't noticed Pomfrey remove his friend's shirt.

Harry had quite literally had the skin whipped off his back.

If the damage had looked bad under clothing, on the bare skin it looked absolutely terrifying. The welts had run together until the result resembled raw meat more than a human back. Clear liquid oozed steadily from the pulped flesh. If Ron didn't know better, he'd have sworn that he was looking at an Incendius Curse victim. Besides the terrible damage, his bare chest and shoulders, as well as his face and neck, were littered with bleeding cuts from the Muggle thing he had seen Hary beaten with.

Hermione was still making whimpering noises, her knuckles pressed into her mouth. His Mum was scarlet with a nameless emotion; rage was his best guess. Pomfrey was trying her best to look professional, but she appeared as though she was going to be sick. Ron himself felt as though waves of heat and cold were traveling through his body, and suddenly felt ill.

"…Ron?"

"Sorry," Ron was jolted back to Harry, who was still nattering on about Sirius.

"Promise you won't tell him anything about this. He'd go and do something mad, like break into the Dursleys'." At Ron's murmured promise. Harry seemed to calm down. "But I do want to talk to him. Later, all right?"

"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you all to leave," Madam Pomfrey gently shooed them out of the room.

On his way out, Ron looked into Harry's eyes, simply and sincerely. "'Course."

As soon as the door closed behind them, Hermione turned to him with wide eyes. "What _happened_, Ron?"

They sat in the corridor, leaning against the wall, as Ron sketched out to her the incident with the letter and their arrival at Privet Drive. When he got to the part about going into the living-room, he hesitated. "We opened the door…er…"

"Well, go on!"

Hermione was lovely, but he sometimes felt she was a bit relentless in her search for information. "I'm trying! Well, we opened the door…"

"You've already said that!"

"Well, I'm saying it again, all right? We opened the door…"

"Ron, will you get on with it!"

"I would if you didn't keep interrupting!"

"I wouldn't interrupt if you'd get on with…" Hermione took a deep breath. "Ron, this is silly. We're worried about Harry and taking it out on each other. So you went into the living-room and somebody was attacking Harry?"

Ron took a deep breath. "His…relations."

"They were attacking his relations? Who was attacking them? And where was Harry?"

Ron ground his teeth in frustration. "Look, nobody was attacking his relations!"

"But you just _said_ they were! Ron," Hermione said authoritatively, "you're not making any sense."

Ron exploded. "_I'm_ not making sense! I like that! You won't let me get a word in edgewise, you keep interrupting me…" He huffed in frustration and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "How am I supposed to…"

Hermione gasped. "You're hurt!"

Her eyes seemed to be boring a hole into the side of his head, and a moment later her fingers, feather-light, touched a spot on his temple which, he only now realized, was throbbing. "It's bleeding," she said in a tone so tender that he trembled with an emotion he couldn't quite place. Today had been a day of shocks and he was too punch-drunk to react right now. "Who did this?" she asked in that same tone that was thoroughly confusing him.

"Harry's uncle," he managed to force out, which had the effect of making her hand drop limply from his face.

"_What?_"

"I've been trying to tell you," Ron sighed patiently. "We found Harry's uncle whipping him with – with his belt. Buckle end," he felt obliged to add. "He was lying on the floor and – and –" When Hermione didn't interrupt, mouth hanging open, he found words and went on: "His cousin - big fat boy - was treading on his hand. I think he'd broken it." Her hand crept up to her mouth in shock. "His aunt was just standing there. Watching."

"Oh… oh…" He could see Hermione's mental gears turning as she processed this new information.

"Nobody attacked them, Hermione. They were alone in the house and just… just beating him."

Her face was agonized. "And he was… _letting_ them?"

"Well," Ron shifted uncomfortably, "he wasn't exactly… he'd, er, fainted, I think."

Hermione's face twisted, and before he could decide whether to pat her comfortingly or find something soothing to say, she buried her face in Ron's shoulder and burst into tears. "How awful, Ron!" he managed to make out. Ron put an arm awkwardly round her shoulders as she sobbed. "His own family!"

"Yeah," he grunted, feeling a lot like blubbing himself. It was often a pain in the neck having such a big family – Merlin only knew he'd wished more than once that he'd been an only child – and granted, growing up with the twins taught you to be careful, even wary – but he couldn't begin to imagine what it might be like to have the adults in your life, the ones you expected to take care of you, actually _enjoy_ hurting you. "Yeah," he muttered automatically over the lump in his own throat, patting Hermione vaguely as she cried. His heart went out to Harry as it had never done before, not even when he had seen him as a tiny speck in the sky dwarfed by that Hungarian Horntail. To think that every time he left him at Platform 9 ¾ he was seeing him go back to a life of… His mind recoiled from the thought and he remembered, with painful clarity, how there were bars on the window of Harry's room. How Harry had once confided in him that he had used to live in the cupboard under the stairs. He pulled the crying Hermione closer to him, wishing he could hug Harry like that, bloody well protect him if need be—

"…like to come in and help?" Madam Pomfrey's voice cut through his reverie. It was a toss-up which of them had bolted to his feet faster, himself or Hermione. He saw a strange expression flit across Pomfrey's face – sort of reassured amusement mixed with concern – before he all but shouldered past her to get to Harry.


	5. Chapter 5

The healing of Muggle injuries, Poppy Pomfrey thought, was easy enough in itself. True, there were bruises on top of bruises, the malnutrition was a complication and would probably delay the healing process, some injuries would probably take a while to heal and cause quite a bit of pain, and young Potter would probably bear some pretty unpleasant scars for the rest of his life, but all in all, a full recovery was practically assured.

Still, there was an aspect of the injuries that disturbed Poppy. Although Muggles, she'd heard from her long-ago Muggle Studies professor, tended not to be aware of the emotional power that underlay the physical aspects of their bodies, that power was there and effective nonetheless. Injuries inflicted accidentally were neutral, and healed cleanly and quickly; injuries inflicted out of malice, on the other hand, were the Muggle equivalent of Dark wounds. Though nowhere remotely near as powerfully damaging as truly Dark curse-wounds – not even on the same scale, Poppy thought – they took longer to heal, and more importantly, deposited a residue of pain inside the bearer. It took a skilled Healer to sense it, but young Potter seemed to have more of this residue in him than most. Poppy had sensed it the first time she had examined him, but had put it down to the lingering aftereffects of his unique reaction to the Killing Curse. Now, though, she was forced to consider another reason for the heaviness – the sadness, the world-weariness – inside the boy: long-term abuse and neglect.

There was a cure for the residue, of course. Over the short term, certain charms could banish it, but Poppy put more trust in natural methods than mood-altering spells. Laughter and genuine affection seemed to be the most potent antidotes. She had seen them drive the darkness right out of the bloodstream. Lost in thought, she reached out to turn the boy onto his side.

Molly Weasley held out a hand. Poppy, snapped out of her brown study, looked at her inquiringly. "What is it, Molly?"

"If it's all right with you, Poppy, I think the children might like to help. It would probably make them feel better to make themselves useful." Molly looked slightly shamefaced, but Poppy was delighted.

"What a good idea," she said immediately. How had she not thought of it before?

And so it was that she was watching the beneficial energy almost visibly flowing out of young Weasley and Granger into her patient, doing more good than a dozen Healing Charms. It did her heart a power of good to see the alacrity with which they moved to obey her every word. As she issued instructions – "Hold onto his arms and lift him slowly," she revelled in the gentleness with which the two children's hands touched Harry. They held him lovingly, carefully, not with the reverence of sycophants for a hero but the reverence of those who love someone dear and precious to them and don't want to cause him the least bit of pain if they can possibly help it. She saw the way their faces moved closer to the unconscious boy, the way the girl unembarrassedly kissed the top of his head when it fell against her, and the way the boy nestled his head against Harry as though only masculine pride was holding him back from doing the same thing. She knew a shadow flitted across her face then, as she remembered young men, beyond pride and past caring, kissing their dead and mortally wounded male friends on the battlefield, and hastily pushed the thought away. This one was going to live.

As they got him into a sitting position, Poppy saw them look in ill-concealed fear at his back, and saw the fear melt into cautious relief. She had done a good job, if she did say so herself. The Derma-Gro would take a day or so regrow his skin, of course, but she'd healed the damaged muscle and tissue beneath, except for a few stubborn bruises too close to the bone. She had covered his entire back, including the welts on his bottom and thighs, with a healing paste and sealed the whole thing with a charm so that it wouldn't be wiped off until she came to do so. With a minimum of pain, it would be as good as new by tomorrow. Normally she wouldn't be all that sure about this, but with the nurturing flux around Harry that she could feel, Poppy knew it would be all right.

She showed young Weasley and Granger how to prop their unconscious friend up in a sitting position. They sat facing him, on either side of him; she leaned him forward against them, his chin resting on Weasley's right shoulder and Granger's left one, their upper bodies supporting his chest. She needed him upright to deal with the overspill of blows onto his sides, shoulders and – now that she was assessing the secondary damage – even his face. Come to think of it, young Weasley had one of those marks, too. Better heal it later.

Tut-tutting at the deep bruises on the protruding ribs, Poppy healed and sealed, applying pastes and salves, and did not fail to notice how each move on her part was accompanied by a wince of sympathy from the boy or a small sound from the girl. Her trained eye could detect each of these as a golden pulse of sympathetic, healing energy, going directly into the wounds, and she smiled despite the severity of the injuries. What with Granger and Weasley's protective concern, Potter's grateful acceptance, and his unspoken willingness to walk through fire for either one of them if necessary, the love the three friends shared was so strong in this moment that it manifested itself as a warm gold-amber glow linking and enveloping the trio, the very antithesis of Dark Magic. Yes, young Potter was going to be all right. She wondered if these children knew how lucky they were in their nurturing web. Probably not, she mused, though they performed the healing acts instinctively. Such a shame that there was an unspoken taboo on speaking of these things to laywitchards.

Finally, she was done. The boy's two friends lowered him gently back into the bed, the residual energy of their love shimmering around them.


	6. Chapter 6

With a flick of her wand, Mrs Weasley drew the curtains and turned on the lights in the cosy living room at the Burrow. As Pomfrey came in to heal Ron, she hovered over her shoulder for a moment, but bustled out of the room when Ron rolled his eyes at her. Hermione relaxed as she saw the nasty bruise on the side of Ron's face fade away, leaving only smooth, unblemished skin. Ron broke into an engaging grin. "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."

Hermione remembered her manners. "Yes, thank you so much."

Madam Pomfrey smiled and fixed them both with what Hermione could only describe as an odd look. "Perhaps I rather ought to thank you two," she said cryptically. Her manner became more brisk as she continued. "I've given him a Draught of Healing Slumber, so he should sleep deeply until morning; stay out of his room and keep it dark and quiet. It would be very helpful if you two could be there when he wakes, though. I'll be round to see him tomorrow; in the meantime I'd like you both to stay with him and cheer him up as much as possible. Talk to him, amuse him, tell him jokes, that sort of thing. I don't want him moping at all. Are you up to that?"

"Don't worry about it, Madam Pomfrey," Ron gave a genuine smile this time, "Harry's not really the Moaning Myrtle sort."

Hermione was scandalized. "Ron! How can you be so insensitive! He was just attacked by his own family! He's bound to be upset!"

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good they turned out to be. I doubt he ever expected them to be much bloody—"

"Ron!"

"—use, they've done sod-all for him ever since h—"

"_Ron!_" Hermione nearly shrieked.

He rounded on her, as though swearing in front of a teacher was an everyday occurrence. "_What?_"

Ignoring Ron with aplomb, Hermione turned back haughtily to Pomfrey, who – to Hermione's mortification – seemed to be suppressing her laughter at the scene. "We can cheer Harry up," she said. "Leave it to us."

Ron muttered something about how her idea of cheering someone up was reading aloud to them rom the _Complete O__xford Wizarding English Dictionary_. She gave this comment all the attention it deserved, maintaining a stony silence as Mrs Weasley escorted Madam Pomfrey out of the room, presumably to Floo from the kitchen fireplace. Stalking over to the sofa, she flung herself down onto it so violently that the cushions bounced, crossing her legs and folding her arms tightly over her chest.

Ron came and stood – towered – over her, staring at her, forcing her to look at him. "Now what have I done?" he demanded.

"Dictionary, am I?" she snapped. If looks could kill, Ron would be deader than a doornail right then, of that she was sure.

"Oh, come on, Hermione, you know what I mean—"

"Do I now?" she said coldly.

"Don't be like that!"

"Like what?"

"You can be so insensitive at times, Ron!"

"I like that!"

From the kitchen, Ron's Mum shrieked.

Hermione bolted up off the sofa. Argument forgotten, they raced for the kitchen.

What they saw there, though, wasn't even halfway threatening. Pomfrey was gone, and Mrs Weasley was conversing with someone on the Floo – who it was they couldn't see, as her back blocked the way – and was still shouting, apparently at something the person had said.

"Ssh, move back or she'll make us go upstairs." Ron motioned to Hermione to move to the edge of the doorframe and eavesdrop, and she shamelessly deferred to his years of experience at dealing with an overwrought Mrs Weasley, just as the object of her thoughts let out another scream.

"He can't go back there!" she sobbed. "Have you gone completely mad, Professor? They _beat_ him!"

"Nevertheless, Molly, it is imperative that Harry stay with his aunt and uncle next summer."

Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock and she stared at Ron, who looked similarly stunned. But then the voice – Dumbledore's voice, Hermione recognized – cut through Mrs Weasley's remonstrations. "I will definitely arrange for someone to have a word with the Dursleys," Dumbledore was saying. "But given a choice between Harry suffering some unpleasantness and his death, you know what I will choose."

"_Unpleasantness_! A _word_ with them!" Hermione could barely make out Mrs Weasley's words because she was crying so hard. "You didn't see it, Headmaster – they beat him senseless, they…"

"Molly," Dumbledore said sternly, "there are reasons I cannot tell you for my insistence that Harry stay with the Dursleys – for a while during the summer, at any rate." His voice softened at her obvious anguish. "I hope you trust me to do what is necessary to protect Harry's life."

"Of course I trust you, Headmaster," Molly gasped through great gulping sobs, "but–"

"Every summer until he turns seventeen," Dumbledore went on inexorably. "You would never endanger Harry's life, would you, Molly?"

"No, never, that's why I-"

"Then believe me, there is a reason for what I say – an ancient magic, I cannot elaborate further. Did you know, for example, that one of Voldemort's" – Molly flinched – "servants assumed the shape of Harry's godfather today, using Polyjuice Potion, hoping that Harry's aunt and uncle would recognize him and get him past the wards guarding their house? The only thing that saved Harry was that as soon as they recognized him, they handed him over to the Muggle police. We've only just managed to get hold of him."

Hermione and Ron exchanged a sharp look, and barely had time to cover their ears as Ron's Mum let out an ear-splitting shriek. Dumbledore went on, "Fortunately, the wizard cannot have been very familiar with Harry's home life, or he would have known that the Dursleys would neither believe Harry's protestations of Sirius' innocence nor wish to give him joy by helping arrange a surprise visit." He sighed and smiled ruefully. "Their animosity towards him is actually for the best, Molly. To my knowledge, though, they have never assaulted him before. We must all do everything in our power to ensure that they never do again."

Mrs Weasley was nodding, but Ron nodded to Hermione and they were retreating by common consent, making their way into the living room again. There was a gleam in Ron's eyes that was making Hermione vaguely nervous. Before she could say a word, he spoke. "Everything in our power, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what Dumbledore said. We're to do everything in our power to make sure those bastards—"

"Ron!"

"—don't hit him again," he finished. A shadow crossed his face; he abruptly fell silent and looked at the floorboards.

Hermione contemplated Ron for a moment, remembering the cruel mark on his face. What had her old psychology book called experiences like this? Traumatic? That was it, it must have been traumatic for Ron to actually see it happening. He ought to talk about it, she decided, studiously avoiding imagining the scene herself. "It must have been pretty awful," she began, trying to draw him out.

Ron drew a shuddering breath, and she opened her mouth to tell him it was all right. She never got the chance. "It was – yeah, it was. It was right disgusting, Hermione. They weren't even angry – they were – just _cold_." His gaze flicked up to meet hers, briefly, and she saw his eyes narrow with a bitter hatred she hadn't thought cheerful, easygoing Ron capable of. "I want to make them pay, Hermione! I want them to think twice before they ever…" He trailed off, embarrassed at his own fervour.

"We can't do anything magical during the hols," she said hesitantly.

"No, but _we_ can."

"What's going on, little bro? We pop in to find Harry in your room looking as if he's been attacked by a dragon…"

"…and Mum crying on the Floo to Dumbledore. So whoever's responsible…"

"…if we can make 'em pay, we will."

Fred and George stood in the doorway, wands in hand and identical businesslike expressions on their freckled faces.


	7. Chapter 7

The night was peaceful above Little Whinging. It was especially peaceful around Number 4, Privet Drive. The night seemed to wrap the little house in a blanket of peace and quiet. All was still and calm. Only two things broke the sleepy picture: the presence of three wizards and one witch in the back garden, and a swarm of bees hovering outside the upstairs window.

"Want to do the honours, Hermione?"

Hermione's teeth bared in a feral grin as she raised her wand. "_Oppu_—" But then she blanched and almost dropped it. "What am I doing?" she gasped. "Underage Use of Magic! I'd be expelled!"

"Oh well," Fred grinned. "It was worth a try, wasn't it, Forge."

"It was indeed, Gred."

Hermione rounded on them. "Is this," she said so dangerously that the twins backed away a step, "your idea of a joke?"

"Come on, Hermione."

"Where's your sense of humour?"

"Er, not to interrupt or anything, but can we get on with it? This lot's making me nervous," a worried Ron interrupted, eyeing the swarm of angrily buzzing bees.

Hermione looked from Ron to the bees. This was not the time for revenge. "You haven't heard the last of this," she said in a voice that held a promise of a slow, painful death. She took a step backwards. "Go on, then." The twins eyed her nervously. "Go _on_!"

Twin breaths, twin incantations. "_Oppugno!_"

The bees seemed to rear up as one before disappearing through the crack of the open window.

Hermione and the Weasleys waited.

And waited.

Shrieks began to echo from inside the house, becoming increasingly frantic. Thumping and running could be heard. Finally, the door to the back garden burst open and three figures rushed out, tumbling into the grass and flailing wildly around. The first was a large man with a purple face and an abnormally large bottom. The second was a plump teenage boy with a huge bum. The third was a thin woman whose behind lookd much too big for her small frame. It was as though she was trailing a balloon.

Gradually, Hermione realized that the three bottoms only appeared large because a) they were swollen to roughly five times their normal size, and b) each person's bottom was enveloped by a cloud of bees, who were not stinging anywhere else. Next to her, she could see Fred and George howling with laughter. But as she looked across to Ron, she saw that he was looking as serious as she was.

The Dursleys' yelps of pain as the enchanted bees kept stinging, and the howls of "Ooh!" "Aah!" "Gerremoffme!" and "Help!" would normally have roused Hermione to their defense, and prompted a lecture on Muggle-baiting. But all she could think of as she watched the scene was Harry at their mercy, lying on the ground. As the big man tried to shoo the bees away from his swollen posterior, getting stung in the hands for his pains, Hermione envisioned him hitting Harry with a stick, and her heart hardened.

Her eyes were drawn to the boy, lying face-down on the grass. She blushed to see that he had pulled down his trousers and pants altogether, revealing an astonishingly large expanse of scarlet, sting-swollen buttocks, one of which he seemed to be trying to cup in each hand. This proved to be a particularly bad idea, because not only were his buttocks too big to fit into his hands, but – judging from his renewed and increasingly frantic shrieks – the bees seemed to delight in stinging bare skin. The sight was comical, in a way, but all she could see was his foot crushing Harry's hand, and the horsy woman looking on, watching.

Hermione didn't find their antics in the least bit funny.

"That's enough," she said sharply to the twins, and her voice must have been sterner than she thought, because they both positively quailed before Fred lifted a shaky wand and banished the bees. For a moment the Dursleys lay on the grass, howling, seemingly unaware that the stinging Furies were gone.

"You – you freaks!" bellowed Vernon, pain seemingly fuelling his anger. "Think you've got the better of me, eh? Well, I'll have the last laugh! Just wait till that wretched boy gets home! I'll thrash him within an inch of his life…" But he got no further because, at the words "I'll thrash him", Ron had already torn himself away from the twins and now hoisted him up by his shirt collar.

"If you so much as _think_ about taking this out on Harry," Ron said quietly, his voice like tempered steel, "if you touch a hair on his head, I_ mean _it – I don't care whether it's a shove to get him to hurry up or if you think you can take it out on him, what we've just done to you – if you so much as _touch_ him, you'll have _me_ to deal with, and _I_ haven't got a bloody sense of humour. I won't be sending sodding bees after you. That's my brothers' idea. 'S up to me, I'll just kill you. Or turn you into earthworms or something. I'm getting frightfully good at it." His eyes narrowed with contempt. "Earthworms. That'd be good for you, grubbing through the mud for something to eat like the insects you are. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Ron…" Hermione said thinly. _You're frightening me_ was what she wanted to say, but she didn't. She had never seen this side of him before.

"I hope you're getting it," Ron said. "Are you? If you hurt Harry ever again – never mind hurt, if you so much as _look_ at him wrong – I'll find out about it. And what I'll do to you _then _will make this seem like nothing, believe you me." He rounded on Vernon and Dudley and spoke slowly, deliberately. His eyes blazed. "There are curses, Unforgivable Curses. Have you heard of them?" He addressed this last to Petunia, frozen in abject terror.

"Have you heard of them? ANSWER ME!" Ron roared. Hermione backed away a step from this stranger. She tore her eyes from him to look helplessly at the twins, who looked frightened but not as surprised as her. She was distracted by a squeak from Harry's aunt.

"Ye-ye-ye-ye-yes," quavered Petunia.

"Then tell your husband and your son to _effing keep their hands – OFF – Harry_." He turned his hard stare on Vernon and Dudley. "And that goes for whether his godfather is there or not. Or whether he's alive or dead. Or whatever the bloody hell he's done, whether he's right or wrong or flaming whatever – Just. Stay. Away. From him."

He turned on his heel and stalked back to them. The twins applauded lightheartedly, but their eyes were serious. In dead silence they walked back to the Knight Bus stop.

The ride home was very quiet.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of sinking into a soft, warm bed. He tried to open his eyes, but for some reason his eyelids were heavy. Alarmed, he forced his eyes open despite the warmth and comfort.

Pain crackled through him. The sunlight lanced into his eyes like a hot poker, and he gasped, clamping them shut. Suddenly, his shoulders ached, his back throbbed, everything hurt. He gritted his teeth against the pain and struggled to attain a sitting position, bracing himself for another attempt at vision. _What's going on_, he thought as his body refused to obey his commands. He felt strangely numb, as though wrapped in cotton-wool, and—

"Steady on, Harry," a rough, friendly voice said. It comforted him, though he was having trouble placing—

"You're all right," said a softer, feminine voice. Its effect on him was strange – like a shower of sparkling dewdrops splashing over his body.

"What happened?" he said, only nothing came out but a sigh. The two voices went on murmuring to him; he could feel that they - _completed_ him somehow, and he was tempted to relax, but the nagging mystery of who they were – it hovered tantalizingly just out of reach – and where he was and why he was there forced him into motion. But motion eluded him, and he struggled with increasing frustration. Why couldn't he move properly?

"All right, all right, take it easy, don't strain yourself."

He had barely attempted to push himself upright when he felt the hands. Soft hands and rough ones, they laid themselves upon his body, gentle and caressing, slipping around his aching shoulders, taking the strain off his sore back, supporting his pounding head, cocooning him in warmth and lifting him into a sitting position, so gently he half-felt he was floating. The love surrounding him was so strong, so utterly unlike anything he had ever experienced, that he wondered if he had died and was now with his parents. "Mum? Dad?" he tried to ask, but no sound came out. Could it be that? Could he be dead? Was this what it felt like to have a mum and dad?

It wasn't until a feminine voice ordered, "Close the curtains, the sunlight's probably hurting his eyes," and a rough hand steadied his temples to slide his glasses onto his face, that he knew who it was.

_Ron and Hermione! What are they doing_ – Embarrassed by the raw emotion he felt emanating from his two friends, he tried to shake himself free, but they only held him tighter. He heard the _shrrik_ of curtains drawing closed, and the painful light battering against his eyelids faded. Eager to make sense of matters, he opened his eyes a crack—

—and remembered.

"Oh, no!" he blurted as it all came crashing back: the humiliating incident at Privet Drive, waking up at the Burrow, Sirius—"Sirius!" The name was on his lips before it was fully formulated in his mind. His eyes snapped fully open, and he had slipped out of his friends' grasp, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up before they could react. Where he would have gone, he wasn't sure, but it was rendered moot as he felt light-headed and, most embarrassingly, had to sit promptly down on the side of the bed. He was vaguely aware of his friends fluttering round him ineffectually…

"…he's all right! He is! Harry, he's fine, it was a misunderstanding, don't worry…"

A cheerful, almost-amused drawl cut through Hermione's breathless reassurances. "We'd get him on the Floo for you, but we thought you wouldn't want him to see you like this." A mirror was held up in front of him and he peered into it.

"Ron, have you taken leave of your senses? How could you show him the state he's in!"

"Oh, right, leave him to terrorize the neighbourhood like the Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Ha ha. Harry, I'm going to get Mrs. Weasley, all right?" Hermione kissed the top of his head gently and moved briskly out of the room.

But Harry was barely concentrating: he was staring at the mirror, jaw dropping. His eyes were purple and swollen, and his cheeks sported bruises in all colours of the rainbow. He grimaced. That was all he needed to complete the freak image. Skinny wizard gets beaten up by… "Oh no! My wand!"

"Right here," Ron said reassuringly, picking it up from the bedside table and waving it around. "Look, mate, Madam Pomfrey'll be here in a bit and heal all this right up and you can talk to Sirius yourself, or if you can't wait, give us a mo to let Mum put a glamour on you. We just thought him seeing you in that state might make him into a real murderer instead of a pretend one, if you get my drift?"

Harry inhaled and exhaled deeply. Ron was right, of course. He didn't have to like it, but – yeah. Seeing him like that would send Sirius into a fit, a fit he couldn't afford. He slumped onto the side of the bed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"He's okay, I swear," Ron repeated earnestly. "They had the wrong man, d'you remember I told you yesterday?"

_Yesterday._

Suddenly all his lost memories clicked into place, and relief flooded through Harry. Yes, they had told him yesterday, told him his godfather was free, told him he could speak to him as soon as he was better. Lord, what an idiot to let himself get attacked that way, and have to be rescued. There was something about that memory, too… He looked at Ron for the first time. He looked drawn, with dark smudges under the blue eyes. He _remembered_ something… He peered more closely at Ron's temple. "Yeah, I remember," he finally said, ignoring Ron's sigh of relief. "Did you have a cut or something on your face?" he asked.

Ron's pale skin suddenly burned scarlet. "No," he said a bit too hurriedly. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," Harry said casually. It wasn't something he could see in his mind's eye, but he could feel it in his bones: pain filtering through barely-conscious awareness, fear and misery, and then the warmth of a body cutting off the blows. Being lifted, carried – arms carrying him and a body shielding him, where had he felt _that_ before, he thought wryly, and then Ron propping him up in bed – God, he'd been useless yesterday. But he remembered this, a clear, stark moment in the haziness: the room had been fuzzy without his glasses, and he'd only been able to see, in startlingly detailed close-up, an ugly, bleeding bruise in the distinctive shape of a belt-buckle cut into Ron's cheek. The memory of that smooth peach-fuzz-covered skin, that should _never_ be hurt, branded with a black-and-blue mark – Harry shuddered.

"You're looking a bit funny there, mate."

His uncle had _hit_ Ron. Whaling on him, Harry, was bad enough, but to lay a hand on _Ron_, to _hurt_ him—

"Harry? You all right?"

The bolt of rage that surged through him was so sudden that he gasped. The room wavered a moment, then the windowpanes shattered and Ron's Quidditch posters fluttered as though in a strong breeze.

Ron ducked, and then – surprisingly – laughed. "Whoa! Now I _know_ you're all right!" He peered through his fingers at the broken glass. "Can't break things with your mind if you're concussed, I know that much!"

"Ron! What happened?" Hermione gasped, coming in with not only Mrs. Weasley but Madam Pomfrey in tow.

"Oh, right, blame Ron, it's always Ron's fault, isn't it," Ron retorted in a mock-whiny tone.

"Um, sorry, Mrs. Weasley, it was my fault, I think," Harry said uncertainly. He knew Mrs. Weasley would never hit him, but it was always hard owning up to something he'd done if he wasn't at school.

"Oh, poor dear, did you have a nightmare?" the motherly woman said, taking in the shattered glass and the cowering wizards in Ron's portraits. "_Reparo!_"

"Yeah," Ron cut in, saving Harry the necessity of a lie. _That's twice your nose should have grown longer today_, Harry thought idly, settling back into bed and reluctantly letting himself be fussed over.

Mrs. Weasley rapidly gave way to Madam Pomfrey – "Oh, splendid, splendid," she enthused approvingly. In no time at all, his back was feeling a hundred times better as she cast a number of spells that banished the pain and most of the injuries. She then did the same with his front, and proudly showed Harry his now-unblemished face in the mirror.

"Oh, thanks, Madam Pomfrey," Harry began, only to be shushed immediately. His thanks, though, were echoed by a delighted-looking Ron and Hermione, who fixed their eyes on him, beaming. There was something about the affection in their gazes that warmed his heart, as though their very stares were filling him with health and strength. He pushed the irrational thought aside and tried to listen to Pomfrey.

"It's you and your friends who should get the credit," the mediwitch said, rather cryptically in Harry's opinion. Smiling, she produced two vials of potion from her robes: one, smelling of rotten eggs, slurped suspiciously about in the container like marsh slime, while the other was the exact colour and smell of dragon dung. "Here, drink these."

Talk about undoing all your good work! "What's in them?" he sputtered.

"Best not to ask," Ron, looking vastly amused, intoned sagely in a manner that reminded Harry of the twins.

"Ron!" scolded Hermione. "It's—"

"Looks a bit like dragon dung, doesn't it, Harry? Only it looks as though the dragon had diarrhoea…"

Balancing a goblet in each hand, Harry glared daggers at Ron. "Want a taste?"

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it, the smell's turning my stomach. Think it might be some kind of sh—"

"_Ron!_"

But Harry didn't need Hermione's defence; he was already plotting his revenge. Holding his nose, he drained first one goblet, then the other. But then he turned to an approving-looking Madam Pomfrey and whispered into her ear. Smiling, she measured a half-dose of each potion out into a third goblet, and swirled them together to form an even more foul-smelling concoction than each of the previous two had been on its own. Stealing a glance at Ron, Harry raised it to his lips.

"Not another one!" Ron's face twisted in sympathy. Looking at Harry, he added, "Did it really taste like dragon dung?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" In a flash Harry, with his wiry frame, had leapt out of bed and pounced on Ron, tumbling them both to the floor, and slopped the entire contents over his friend's hair and face and down his robes.

"UGH! Gerroff me!" Ron squirmed out from under Harry, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Ugh, that's disgusting!" Harry just sat back on the floor and laughed as Ron shook the brown sludge and green slime out of his hair, groaning as the glop made its way inside his robes and underneath his clothing. He looked over at Hermione, who was giggling. "Let's see how you like it!" Ron grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down on top of him, rubbing his slimy hair in her face. She squealed in mock-outrage as Ron, getting into the spirit of the thing now, rolled out from under her, wrung some of the mess out of his clothing and smeared it onto a laughing Harry's head. Hermione flung herself on top of Ron, Harry threw himself into the breach, and the three of them rolled around on the floor, shrieking hysterically.

The two adults looked at each other. "Full recovery?" queried Mrs. Weasley.

"Full recovery," replied Madam Pomfrey.

"Hello there!"

All of them jumped as Sirius Black's head appeared in the tiny fireplace. "Hi," he grinned, then his eyes fell upon the three children rolling around and screaming, "looks like Quidditch got a bit messy. Raining, is it?"

Everyone froze, then five pairs of eyes swivelled round to meet his.

"Yeah, Quidditch. And rain. Quidditch in the rain. Raining cats and dogs, it's a flood out there," his godson nodded emphatically. The way nodding seemed to make him dizzy, Sirius would lay odds on Harry's having taken a Bludger to the head.

"Oh, Quidditch, yeah, rain, absolutely," Ronald Weasley nodded too.

"Yes, rainrain, QuidditchQuidditch. Yes, it was. Hi, Snuffles!" smiled Hermione. Why was she blushing?

Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey seemed to have been afflicted by the mass flusterance too. "Yes, indeed, hello, rain, er, Quidditch, I mean, Mr. Black, shall I get you a cup of tea?" The two women were practically falling over themselves to make him feel welcome. If he found it odd that they sprinted out of the room to get him tea as though the hounds of Hades were after them, he found it even odder when Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at him, smiled in unison and simultaneously all burst out laughing. But all awkwardness was forgotten when he leaned forward and his godson threw himself warmly into his arms.

This, thought Sirius, was how it should be, always.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry half-dozed in a soft, lumpy chair in the Burrow's warm kitchen while Mrs Weasley fussed loudly – and the twins not-so-loudly – at him. It felt wonderful to be all right and not be an invalid any more – even though Mrs. Weasley seemed determined to treat him as one until school started. The twins had practically had a row with her this afternoon to insist that Harry be allowed to play two-a-side Quidditch with them and Ron. She'd agreed, eventually, but not without numerous injunctions and threats of "I'm warning you, if you make that boy's injuries," which had now been completely healed, "any worse…!"

Harry grinned, stifling a chuckle: the most memorable moment for him had been when Ron had shouldered past him to get the Quaffle. He'd felt so delighted at not being treated as though he was fragile that he'd had an impish impulse. Floating his broom down to the ground in a zigzag pattern, doing a most pitiful impression of a wounded dove, he'd flopped limply onto the grass, eyes closed as though in a dead faint.

"Oh, _no_!" Ron's voice had sounded in the air above him. Hermione had shrieked and run over to him from where she had been watching. An instant later he'd felt Ron's broom crash into the ground inches from him. "Harry! _Harry_!" The voice had been so urgent that he'd almost given up the charade. Instead, though, he stirred as though in his sleep, and murmured: "Chocolate…"

"What?" He could hear a smile forming in one of the twins' voices.

"What _happened_ up there? Did you boys hit him? You should have known better, honestly!"

"I only touched him! I'm such a git, I should have know he wasn't up to it…"

Hermione's frantic voice was making him feel guilty, but he wailed, "Oh, the pain! Must have chocolate…"

"What?" He almost laughed out loud at Ron's perplexed tone.

"…mince pies… ice lollies… Cream Puffs…" his head lashed dramatically from side to side. "Cauldron Cakes…Chocolate Frogs…"

The twins burst out laughing and Harry, unable to contain himself any longer, opened his eyes. The sight of Ron and Hermione looming over him, looking down at him with big, worried eyes as big as saucers, finally sent him over the edge and he collapsed into howls of laughter. The twins were laughing now too, but it was obviously taking his two best friends a moment to adjust. He didn't know why their expression was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, but it was.

"Harry, you prat!" Ron turned beet red. "Think that's funny, do you?"

"Yeah," Harry laughed, rolling around in the grass now. It was only a moment before Ron gave in and joined him. Hermione tried to look disapproving, but her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. Oh, it felt good to be normal once again.

Harry sipped his hot chocolate and smiled at the memory. _Think of that, don't think of the Dursleys_, he thought determinedly. It was wearing on his nerves to think of going back there again next summer. He tried to calm himself down. _They'll definitely have heard by now that Sirius is still free, he thought. That should stop anyone doing – anything – again_. He was still uneasy, but pushed it away. He pushed himself to his feet, reluctantly leaving the warm kitchen. At some point, the twins and their mother had left the room. Perhaps Ron and Hermione would be up for a few rounds of Exploding Snap. Come to think of it, where _were_ Ron and Hermione, anyway?

Trailing the bottoms of Ron's too-long trousers along the floor, Harry wandered through the house until he reached the rickety door that led to the back garden, where he heard voices. Pushing it open a crack, he could see the two of them sitting on a tree stump, talking earnestly. _If they start to get romantic, I'm leaving_, he was just thinking, when he heard his name mentioned. Never one with qualms about eavesdropping – he could recall more than one occasion when it had saved his hide – he lingered a moment at the door, listening.

"…mean all that you said at Harry's house about the Unforgivable Curses?" Hermione was asking.

"Well, no, but I had to think of something," Ron was saying sheepishly. "You saw what they did to him, Hermione!"

"Yes, but.." Hermione seemed to hesitate. "Going to their house in the middle of the night and setting insects on them was bad enough. But to threaten them with Unforgivables…"

_What?_

"It's not as though they didn't deserve it," Ron said with feeling. "And I meant it, too. If they so much as lay a finger on Harry again, they won't know what hit them, I mean it." He took a deep breath. "You didn't see him lying there, Hermione, his bloody cousin holding him down, and that bastard just hitting him and hitting him, even though he'd already fainted, and that bitch just watching. You think it was frightening to see him at Quidditch this afternoon? That's nothing compared to what it looked like, believe me."

Wait a minute, wait a minute. Ron and Hermione had gone to the Dursleys' in the middle of the night and threatened them with Unforgivables? Harry wasn't sure whether to be indignant or elated.

"I know," Hermione said, seeming uncomfortable, "but…the twins said you didn't mean it, that you were just being protective, but…"

So the twins were there too? They'd done _that_ for him? Unbidden, a big grin began to spread across his face.

"..but I was frightened of you for a minute there," she said. Her natural bossiness seemed to have disappeared; she sounded curiously vulnerable, seeking reassurance.

"Oh, Hermione," Ron smiled weakly, "don't be. I was just so angry. You saw what they did to him. I'd never do that to anyone, but if someone decides to hurt you or Harry, I'm not responsible for the consequences."

"Oh?" she said. She was smiling now, but she hid her face, and Ron seemed unsure of whether or not she was disapproving.

"Hermione, you know when I told him that if he touched Harry again, he'd have me to deal with? I _did_ mean that. How d'you think I feel knowing he's got to go back there next summer without us to look after him? I don't want us to have to rescue him – I just want them to bloody well leave him alone until he's of age and can come and live with us! I _had_ to bloody well scare them, and it – well – it seemed like a good idea at the time," he finished, a bit sheepishly now.

"It certainly was," Hermione said, a touch admiringly. "I can't really approve of something like that, but I can tell you I think it worked."

"You think so?" Ron was the one seeking reassurance now.

"Well, I know if _I'd_ been abusing _my_ nephew, and a big redheaded wizard Apparated into my back garden…"

"We took the Knight Bus, though…"

She ignored him. "…hexed me, and then held me at wandpoint saying," Hermione jumped up, pointing her wand at an imaginary prone figure, "'If you ever lay a finger on Harry again, you'll have ME to deal with, and you know the Unforgivable Curses? Well, that's what I'll be using on you if you so much as look at him wrong,' I know _I'd_ be quaking in _my_ boots."

Ron was blushing furiously now, eyes glued to the tree-trunk; Harry just stood there, glowing. His friends had done _that_ for him? Ron had actually threatened Uncle Vernon with the Unforgivables? He felt ready to burst with a nameless emotion. He stood there, feeling wonderful, until he noticed that Ron and Hermione had moved on to other subjects. He pushed the door open and joined them in the garden.

----------------------------------

"Fred, you been working on something without telling me?"

"What? You know I haven't, ya git."

George just looked at his twin. "Nothing like, say, replicating our twinfield?"

"What? Didn't know you could even _do_ that."

"Then would you mind telling me what _that_ is?"

"What _what_ is?"

"That!"

Fred joined his twin at the window of their room and followed where he was pointing into the back garden. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat on a tree-trunk, chatting amiably. But he could see what George meant at once: around them pulsed a soft field of energy, just discernible in the night air.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Fred wondered.

"You mean it's not a prototype?"

"Heavens, no!" Fred shorted. "I'd never work something like that out without your help!"

George looked at them again. "P'r'aps they come by it naturally."

Fred stared at the aura. "P'r'aps."

"Oh, shit—" George lunged for their experimental cauldron before it could explode, but just missed. The resulting explosion put all thoughts of the trio out of their mind.

---------------------------------

Author's Note: I'm now done with With a Little Help from my Friends. However, in my mind, it's not finished, thanks to a comment from Padfoot2304 (waves), I now have a sequel written where I explore the effects of this link around the time of the final battle - from the PoV of Snape, of all people. (Don't ask me; he wormed his way into it.) Question: Should I go on and post it as part of this story, or as a separate one? Love and thanks to everyone who encouraged me to go on with this. Sarah


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